Appointed to Die

By Kate Charles

Death at the Deanery – sudden and unnatural death. Someone should have seen it coming. For even before Stuart Latimer arrives as the new Dean of Malbury, shock waves are reverberating through the tightly-knit and insular Cathedral Close, with sweeping changes afoot. And the reality is even worse than the expectation. The Dean’s naked ambition and ruthless behaviour alienate everyone in the Chapter: the gentle John Kingsley, vague Rupert Greenwood, pompous Philip Thetford and, especially, the strongly traditionalist Arthur Brydges-ffrench.
Financial jiggery-pokery, clandestine meetings, malicious gossip, and several people who witness more than they ought to, make for a potent mix. But who could foresee that the mistrust within the Cathedral Close would spill over into violence and death? Canon Kingsley’s daughter Lucy draws in her lover David Middleton-Brown, against his better judgement, and together they probe the surprising secrets of a self-contained world where nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marylebone House
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910674123

Kate Charles

Kate Charles, who was described by the Oxford Times as 'a most English writer', is an expatriate American. She has a special interest and expertise in clerical mysteries, and lectures frequently on crime novels with church backgrounds. Kate is a former Chairman of the Crime Writers' Association and the Barbara Pym Society. Kate lives in LUDLOW, Shropshire.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

For the foundations will be cast down: and what hath the righteous done?

Psalm 11.3

One night in November . . .

The piercing klaxon of the sirens shattered the customary nocturnal tranquillity of the Cathedral Close. Canon John Kingsley, who had not been long in bed and had been too troubled to sleep, rose quickly and crossed to the window. The police cars’ pulsating blue lights reflected eerily on the grey stone of the cathedral, as unnatural an intrusion into this place as the harsh wailing of the ambulance sirens.

But there was a kind of inevitability about it, thought John Kingsley as the drama unfolded, a few houses away around the bend of the Close. Like the last act of a Shakespearean tragedy – except that it wasn’t the last act, but the last act but one: in the real world, if not in Shakespeare, justice must be done, and the guilty brought to judgement.

But who are the guilty? John Kingsley reflected painfully. Surely we must all bear the guilt: we’ve all thought of ourselves as somehow charmed, here in the Close, as though it were a second Eden, sealed off from the wickedness of the outside world. But we all should have realised that living in the shadow of a holy place is no proof against human evil, against sins of ambition, spiritual pride . . . and even murder.

As the cold blue lights flashed, casting distorted shadows, grotesquely huge, on the east end of the cathedral, it was all too clear what had happened. Two men had been at the Deanery tonight, Canon Kingsley knew – two men who had good reason to hate and fear each other – and now one of them was coming out on a stretcher, ministered to by hovering paramedics, and the other would soon follow, flanked by police.

How had it come to this? How had their little world been brought to destruction? For as the two men, the one living and the one dying, left the Deanery that night, John Kingsley knew beyond any doubt that no matter what followed, their sheltered world would never be the same again.

But let us begin the story a few months earlier, in July . . .

Act I

CHAPTER 1

Thou shalt prepare a table before me against them that trouble me: thou hast anointed my head with oil, and my cup shall be full.

Psalm 23.5

No one at the dinner party mentioned the empty place at table. There was certainly awareness of it; Lucy Kingsley sensed it in the occasional speculative glances cast from around the table in the direction of the empty chair. Their hostess had said merely that Canon Brydges-ffrench was indisposed and would not be joining them that evening as planned.

Lucy was surprised. She’d spent some time that afternoon with Canon Brydges-ffrench and had not noticed any signs of indisposition. But the Canon’s absence was for Lucy, as for most of the dinner guests, merely a matter of curiosity, a cause for mild speculation. For the hostess, it was an unmitigated disaster.

Rowena Hunt looked at the empty chair at the head of the table with despair; there was nothing else to do, she reflected bitterly. It wasn’t just that Canon Brydges-ffrench was theoretically the honoured guest, as Subdean, and thus senior member of the Chapter, and the probable next Dean of Malbury Cathedral. It wasn’t even that her plan for sumptuously entertaining the entire Chapter and thereby subtly convincing them of the excellence of her culinary skills had been marred, that the opening move in her carefully planned campaign was thus a failure in spite of all her preparations. No, she thought: the main difficulty was that the numbers had been upset. They were one man short at table, and that wrecked everything. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to ring until just before dinner, leaving Rowena insufficient time to remove the extra place setting and the chair, let alone to find a last-minute substitution.

The real problem, of course, was that Kingsley woman. When Rowena had planned this dinner party, weeks ago, it had looked as though there would be an extra man, and that was, although perhaps not ideal, no bad thing. Then just a few days ago Canon Kingsley had rung her, apologetic, to beg off from the dinner party. He’d just learned, he said, that his daughter Lucy was coming for the weekend. He’d happened to mention to Canon Brydges-ffrench, he’d explained, that his daughter was an artist, and the Subdean had immediately insisted that Canon Kingsley contact her and ask her to come this weekend. Planning for his music festival had fallen perilously behind, and the artistic talents of Lucy Kingsley were exactly what they needed at this point.

Rowena, of course, had insisted that Canon Kingsley must bring his daughter to the dinner party. He had protested that she was a vegetarian, and thus difficult to cater for, but Rowena had explained that she was already committed to providing vegetarian fare for Canon Thetford and his wife – vegetarianism was just one of the many ‘isms’ embraced by that couple.

She’d had no way of knowing that in addition to being a talented artist, Lucy Kingsley was also an undeniably attractive – some would even say beautiful – woman, with a graceful presence and a stunning nimbus of shoulder-length red-gold curls. The colour and the curl even looked natural, thought Rowena sourly, her hand going to her own glossy black hair, its stylish waves as well as its rich colour pur-chased and maintained at great expense. And the Kingsley woman couldn’t be a day under thirty-five – it just wasn’t fair that she should have hair like that.

Seated at Rowena’s right, Jeremy Bartlett couldn’t keep his eyes off Lucy Kingsley. It had been a mistake, Rowena now saw belatedly, to seat Lucy on Jeremy’s other side. She had of course expected that Lucy, as a stranger in their little community, would talk to her father. But Canon Kingsley was deep in conversation with Evelyn Marsden, who had been left stranded by Arthur Brydges-ffrench’s defection. Hemmed between John Kingsley and the empty chair, it was only natural that Miss Marsden should address herself to the former, and that he should see it as his duty to attend to the lone woman, leaving his daughter to fend for herself.

She was fending very well, ruminated Rowena with a savage poke at her tarragon chicken. With Jeremy’s back firmly turned towards her, she had little better to do than to observe her dinner guests and attempt to eavesdrop on their conversations. It was true that Canon Greenwood, seated on her left, was carrying on a monologue which was vaguely addressed to her, but as she had no interest in what he was saying, an occasional nod was all that was required of her.

Rowena derived some perverse satisfaction from the fact that Evelyn Marsden must be nearly as discomfited over Canon Brydges-ffrench’s non-appearance as she was herself. It had been especially galling to her, Rowena had observed, that she’d had no hint of his ‘indisposition’ until it had been publicly announced. Miss Marsden, proprietary as she was about the Subdean, would have expected him to have phoned her first, and to have given her all the details of whatever had befallen him, so that she could subsequently divulge the facts, or not, as she felt necessary. But she was clearly as much in the dark as everyone else about what was keeping Arthur Brydges-ffrench from this evening’s festivities, and her displeasure was evident.

If she hadn’t been so upset herself, Rowena could almost have felt sorry for Evelyn Marsden. It must be terrible to be so old, so poor, and so unattractive, she thought – dependent upon the virtual charity of the Dean and Chapter for the roof over your head, and with no prospects of a man ever wanting you. It was no secret in the Close that Miss Marsden would like to become Mrs Brydges-ffrench; the possibility of this actually happening seemed highly unlikely to Rowena. It was true that Arthur Brydges-ffrench was not exactly a prize catch, but at least he had a good position – especially if he became Dean – and Evelyn could certainly never hope to do better. Retired now, and in her early sixties, Miss Marsden looked exactly what she was, or at least had been: the headmistress of the local infants’ school. She always dressed smartly, if dowdily, and wore her auburn-tinted hair in an old-fashioned French roll. The dress that she was wearing tonight almost concealed the unfortunate tendency towards plumpness that she’d fought unsuccessfully all her life, and as she inclined her head to Canon Kingsley, Rowena observed her slightly stilted manner of speech, caused by the self-conscious way that she pulled her upper lip down in an effort to conceal her slightly protruding front teeth. She was definitely someone to be pitied, as was the poor Canon who so unexpectedly had to share her company this evening.

Canon Kingsley, though, betrayed no discomfort. He showed every evidence of interest in her conversation, nodding away as he tucked into his meal. He was definitely enjoying his food, Rowena noted, and that endeared him to her – she hoped he’d remember, when the time came, what a good cook she was. As the most recent addition to the Cathedral Chapter, who had in fact been in his position of Residentiary Canon only a few months, John Kingsley was not well known to her. But from what she’d seen of him thus far, there was nothing to dislike – apart from his daughter, of course. His manner was always gentlemanly, in a somewhat abstracted way, and there was something serenely spiritual about his long, pale face, topped as it was with a soft sheaf of silvery hair. Tallish and willowy, he was as ethereal as an attenuated saint in an El Greco painting.

His daughter took after him in build, observed Rowena, as well as in her pale complexion, and she’d made the most of it by dressing in a pastel Laura Ashley print dress. Rowena could see her animated face clearly as she turned towards Jeremy Bartlett, the blue-green eyes fixed on him and a smile curving her mouth. A shameless flirt, Rowena told herself acidly. Jeremy should see through her in a minute.

Jeremy showed no signs, though, of tiring of Lucy Kingsley’s company; his back remained turned relentlessly to Rowena. She felt like crying: for weeks she’d worked planning this evening, not only to impress the members of the Chapter with her culinary skills, but also to let Jeremy know, in a subtle way, what a good wife she would make for him. She would grace his home and his table with her elegance and her good taste. She would entertain for him, help him to make a real name for himself in the cathedral world. He was a relative newcomer to the Cathedral Close, having sold up his London architectural practice and moved to Malbury as Cathedral Architect less than a year before. In that time Rowena had made little headway with him – hardly surprising, really, as he was such a recent widower, and presumably still in mourning – but she entertained great hopes of a breakthrough soon. Recently there had been tantalising hints, in his manner towards her, that he was not unaware of her charms, and until this evening that had been almost enough. He was such a fascinating man, with so many interests, and she thought that underneath his restrained and urbane exterior she could sense a passionate nature that matched her own. He was certainly attractive, as well, for a man who must be nearly fifty, with his ashy blond hair shading naturally into silver and his neatly trimmed beard covering a well-shaped jaw. Straining her ears, she caught snatches of their conversation. They were talking about music. Stifling a sigh, Rowena turned towards Canon Greenwood: she may as well be listening to him.

If Jeremy Bartlett, the only non-cleric, was the most interesting man present, Rupert Greenwood was undeniably the most decorative, and Rowena felt herself distracted for just a moment, appreciating his beauty. Although he was over thirty, he had the sort of boyish good looks that are usually thought of as being typically English: a long-jawed, even-featured face with guileless blue eyes and fine hair like spun gold. Unhappily, though, the Precentor of Malbury Cathedral had but one interest in life: music. He could talk about it for hours, completely unaware that he was boring his listeners nearly to tears. Now he was telling her, with enthusiasm, about the various pieces he had selected for Malbury’s new music festival – things that had never before been heard in England.

Probably for good reason, thought Rowena, who was not in the least musical. Fixing a smile on her face, once again she stopped listening, and directed her attention farther down the table, to the three-sided conversation that seemed to be taking place beyond Canon Greenwood.

Perhaps conversation was not really the proper word, she discovered after eavesdropping for a moment. Canon Thetford was lecturing, with appropriate and timely interjections from his wife. The subject seemed to be the problem of overpopulation in the Third World, and what the Church’s response should be.

Everyone agreed, thought Rowena, that Philip Thetford was a tiresome man – as tiresome in his own way as the one-dimensional Rupert Greenwood. It was a great shame that he was not even now where he longed to be: somewhere in Africa, ministering to the needs of the unfortunate natives. But a bad chest had kept him from the mission field, and everyone who knew him was well aware that as far as he was concerned, his position as Canon Missioner at Malbury Cathedral was at best a poor second and a waste of his talents. Physically he was unprepossessing in the extreme, with thin gingery hair – his hairline in retreat as aggressively as his chin – and pale eyes; his nearly invisible eyebrows and lashes gave him an expression of perpetual surprise, and while he was not actually a small man, he somehow gave the impression of weediness. His voice, which had a sonorous carrying quality, nevertheless had an underlying whineyness that Rowena found most unpleasant.

On Canon Thetford’s left was his wife, Claire Fairbrother, nodding vehemently and occasionally adding commentary to his arguments. Feminism was, needless to say, among the ‘isms’ espoused by Ms Fairbrother, who had not taken her husband’s name at the time of their marriage. Although she lived in the Close with her husband, and participated in the life of that insular community, she had never been a typical clergy wife; her own career as head of the Malbury family planning clinic was more important to her than cathedral politics, and she was far too uncompromising by nature to play power games. At forty, a few years younger than her husband, she was a handsome woman, tall and well built. She had a round, somewhat flat face with high cheekbones and widely-spaced tawny-coloured eyes, the kind of ageless face that looks much the same at fifty as at twenty, even without the make-up that she eschewed for political reasons. Her light brown hair was cut short, but its natural wave made it curve attractively around her head, just as she wore her Oxfam-bought clothes with a natural elegance. Tonight, Rowena noted, her dress was a dark Indian cotton, spangled all over with tiny mirrors, and even her bare unshaven legs and sandalled feet could not counteract the impression of elegance.

The same could not be said of poor Judith Greenwood, who was even now picking at her food, her eyes on her plate, as she endured Canon Thetford’s lecture on overpopulation. Describing Rupert Greenwood’s wife as a frump would be unkind, thought Rowena, but it would not be far off the mark. She was certainly insipid, with her lank mouse-coloured hair and her shapeless home-made frock. The sad thing was that she’d evidently made an effort this evening; usually she wore no make-up – not from conviction but because she couldn’t be bothered – but tonight her cheeks were unnaturally pink and her eyelids unnaturally blue. The colours, perceived Rowena, were completely outdated: it was probably the same make-up she’d experimented with as a schoolgirl, then put in the back of a drawer unused until tonight. What had the beautiful Rupert ever seen in this drab woman, Rowena wondered, not for the first time – apart from the fact that she so obviously adored him? That was a powerful aphrodisiac for many men, as she well knew.

Philip Thetford’s voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘And it’s not just in the Third World that overpopulation is a problem,’ he insisted. ‘Right here in Malbury . . . well, Claire could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end. Girls who are no more than children themselves. By the time she sees them it’s too late, of course.’

Claire Fairbrother leaned across her husband. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Judith, I don’t see how any sane, thinking person could bring a child into the world these days. It’s totally indefensible, as far as I’m concerned. The world’s resources will only stretch so far, you know. When Philip and I were married, we decided from the first not to have any children, and we’ve certainly never regretted that decision.’

Judith Greenwood, whose chief sorrow in life was her failure thus far to conceive a child, looked down at her plate and refrained from saying that if everyone thought that way, there would soon be no population at all.

* * *

During the dessert, Lucy Kingsley became aware of her hostess’s eyes on her. It was not, she realised, a particularly friendly gaze. ‘This is delicious,’ she commented brightly, leaning across Jeremy Bartlett. ‘What sort of chocolate did you use?’

Rowena’s smile was chilly. ‘I always use Swiss chocolate.’

‘Would you consider giving me your recipe?’

‘I never share my recipes,’ Rowena replied sharply.

Lucy felt it wise to change the subject; she took her cue from the ongoing discussion across the table, and the photograph she’d noticed on the mantelpiece of a young girl with dark curly hair. ‘You have children, Mrs Hunt?’

‘Yes, a daughter. She’s away . . .’ Lucy noticed a fractional hesitation, ‘at school . . . right now.’ There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘school’.

‘How long have you been running the Friends of the Cathedral? My father tells me that you do a splendid job of it.’ Lucy smiled in what she hoped was a friendly and encouraging way; Rowena unbent slightly.

‘Over six years now. Since just after my husband died. It enabled me to stay in the Close, and to keep the house,’ she explained.

‘Oh, I see. Your husband was a clergyman, then?’

‘He was the Precentor for a number of years. Canon Greenwood’s predecessor. He died very suddenly while singing Evensong – a massive heart attack.’ Rowena looked down at her beautifully manicured nails and added quickly, ‘He was much older than me, of course.’

‘Yes, of course. You must have been a child bride,’ Lucy said solemnly, and was rewarded with a gratified smile at last.

After the cheese and biscuits, the time finally arrived to leave the men with their port. Rowena had brought a very good bottle up from the cellar, mostly for the benefit of Jeremy, who would appreciate such things, and for the absent Canon Brydges-ffrench, a known connoisseur of fine wines. The other men, she thought scornfully, judging from the way they’d treated the sherry and the wines with dinner, probably wouldn’t know the difference between vintage port and a £3.99 bottle from Tesco. Rowena was not averse to a glass of port herself, taken in privacy; perhaps there would be some left over.

‘Well, ladies,’ she said deliberately, watching Claire Fairbrother bridle at the perceived insult, ‘it’s time for us to retire to the drawing room. Jeremy, would you like to do the honours with the port?’ She set the decanter down in front of the architect.

‘Oh, I think I’ll skip the port tonight,’ he said easily, rising from the table and stretching. ‘I’ve had enough to drink already.’

‘But you don’t have to drive,’ Rowena protested.

‘No, but I’d like to keep a clear head.’ He took her hand and raised an eyebrow at her with a faintly ironic smile. ‘Rowena, it’s been a lovely evening, and I’ve enjoyed myself very much, but if you’ll kindly excuse us, I’ve promised Miss Kingsley a tour of the cathedral by moonlight. And I think the moon will be setting rather soon, so we’d better be on our way.’

Rowena Hunt was speechless.

CHAPTER 2

Walk about Sion, and go round about her: and tell the towers thereof.

Mark well her bulwarks, set up her houses: that ye may tell them that come after.

Psalm 48.11–12

It was a warm Saturday evening in early July, one of the exquisitely long evenings of mid-summer; the sun had barely set as Lucy Kingsley and Jeremy Bartlett came out of Rowena Hunt’s Georgian town house into the Cathedral Close. The moon was high in the sky, a pale silver disc, scarcely visible yet in the darkening sky as the shadows gathered around the ancient stone building which dominated the centre of the Close.

Lucy looked up. ‘I thought you said that the moon would be setting soon.’

Her companion grinned conspiratorially. ‘I lied.’

‘But why?’

‘Let’s just say that I find Mrs Hunt a bit overwhelming sometimes. I get the strangest feeling that she has designs on me. And I’d much rather be with you,’ he added.

She let that pass. ‘So, what are you going to tell me about Malbury Cathedral?’

‘How much do you know already?’ Jeremy led her through Rowena’s gate and out into the Close; they were nearly opposite the east end of the cathedral.

‘Not much,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been here before, of course. I grew up in the diocese – my father’s parish was about twenty miles from here. But Ludlow was nearer for shopping, so we didn’t come to Malbury all that often.’

‘A little history, then, to begin?’ he suggested, indicating a convenient bench which faced the cathedral.

‘All right,’ Lucy sat down gracefully.

‘Stop me if I’m telling you things you already know. I tend to get carried away when I start talking about the cathedral.’ He settled down beside her. ‘It was founded as an abbey in 1088. Benedictine, dedicated to St Malo. The monks claimed that they had the saint’s body, or at least a substantial portion of it, although Bath Abbey claimed the same thing.’ Jeremy grinned. ‘There was a lot of that sort of thing going on at the time. Anyway, in the original Norman east end, there was a large shrine to St Malo.’

‘Remind me about St Malo,’ Lucy interrupted reluctantly, ashamed of her ignorance.

‘Oh, he was the apostle of Brittany. A bishop in the sixth century. But he was a Welshman, so he’s always been popular round these parts. An odd man, by all reports – he liked to sing psalms, loudly, as he travelled about on horseback on his missionary journeys.’

‘Sounds like a fun chap.’

‘He had a few enemies, reportedly. But, as I said, the monks here built a huge Norman church and abbey, which they dedicated to him.’ Jeremy gestured at the massive square central tower. ‘The tower’s the best bit that’s left, of course. Though the Victorians did mess about with it, as they were wont to do.’ The Victorian crenellations looked, in the deep blue twilight, like great discoloured teeth. ‘A century or so later, after his martyrdom, Thomas à Becket became an extremely popular saint, and the monks decided to honour him as well, so they changed the dedication to St Malo and St Thomas à Becket. That’s when they put in the great window in the south transept, the Becket window.’

‘It’s still there, isn’t it?’

‘Yes – it’s the cathedral’s greatest treasure.’ Jeremy pointed to the left, at the south transept. ‘But I’m afraid it’s a bit difficult to see from the outside. See that wall that runs right up to the transept? That’s my garden wall. It was put up in the last century, when they built the choir school – which is now my house. So you can only see the window properly from my front garden. Or,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘from my bedroom window. That’s the best view of all of the Becket window. Perhaps I could interest you in looking at it sometime.’

Again Lucy let it pass, refusing to be drawn. ‘Perhaps.’ She looked at the cathedral, pushing her hair back from her forehead, and changed the subject. ‘What about the east end? It’s very Perpendicular, isn’t it?’ The east window, which faced them, was a soaring pointed traceried arch, and the flying buttresses stood out against the night sky.

‘Oh, yes, quite late Perp. During the Wars of the Roses, after the battle of Ludlow in 1459, the Lancastrians were rampaging about a bit, as Lancastrians were often inclined to do. Some of them came here, and for whatever reason they took a dislike to old St Malo. They tore down his shrine, and made rather a mess of the whole east end. So after that the east end was rebuilt in high gothic style. It’s really quite splendid, with the fan vaulting in the retro-choir. The monks never rebuilt the shrine. They recovered St Malo’s head, though, and put it in a gold reliquary at the High Altar. It was a marvellous thing, apparently, shaped like a head and encrusted with jewels.’

‘That didn’t survive the Reformation, did it?’

‘No, and that’s part of the legend of Malbury. When the Abbey was dissolved in 1538, the reliquary was the main thing the commissioners were after. But one of the monks, a Brother Thomas, hid it from them. They threatened him with death, but he said that he was willing to give his head to save St Malo’s head – he was ready for martyrdom, it seems, like his namesake Becket. They took him at his word, and executed him on the spot. Chopped his head off.’

Lucy shivered slightly. ‘They found the reliquary anyway?’

‘Yes, of course. His sacrifice was in vain. Another monk lost no time in turning it over to them. It was duly destroyed, melted down, and the jewels went into Henry VIII’s coffers.’ Jeremy paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘The building didn’t fare too well, either. Before Brother Thomas’s defiance, there had been some indication that the church itself might be spared, that it might be one of the abbey churches that Henry named as cathedrals in 1540. But there wasn’t a chance of that after Brother Thomas’s wasted martyrdom. They let the townspeople have it as a parish church – for a price, of course – but not till after they’d knocked down the last three bays at the West End. That’s why it’s such an odd truncated shape now – there are only two bays of the nave left.’

‘So when did it actually become a cathedral?’

‘In 1868, when the Malbury diocese was formed out of parts of Worcester, Hereford and Lichfield. And that,’ he said with a smile, standing, ‘is the end of your history lesson, Miss Kingsley. Now would you like a tour of the Close?’

The road curved around the east end of the cathedral, so from where they stood they could see much of the Close. ‘As I said,’ Jeremy began, ‘over there, behind that wall, is my house. You can just about see the roof from here. The wall goes straight across the road, so that’s as far as you can go in that direction. You can’t actually get to it from the Close – you have to go round the west end.’

‘How inconvenient for you!’

‘It is a bit, but I don’t often need to come into the Close, and I can go through the cathedral, when it’s open.’

‘You don’t have a key?’

Jeremy laughed. ‘I’m only the humble architect. They don’t trust me with a key.’

‘That building next to your wall looks very old. Or is it pseudo-gothic?’ She pointed at a long stone building, two storeys high, with a number of windows but no visible doorway.

‘No, that’s actually the only bit of the Abbey buildings that survived. It was the monks’ infirmary. I’m not sure why they didn’t tear it down – I think it was used for storage for years. Around 1870 they converted it to a schoolhouse. Then in the 1920s, when they made the old Deanery into offices, the infirmary-cum-schoolhouse became the Deanery. The entrance is around on the side.’

‘It’s vacant now, I presume?’

‘At the moment, though an announcement is expected any day now. We could have a new Dean installed by the early autumn.’ Jeremy shook his head, bemused. ‘I don’t know how much you know about the cathedral politics, Lucy, but most people are banking on Canon Brydges-ffrench being appointed – Malbury Cathedral isn’t exactly forward-looking, and that would be the best way of preserving the status quo. And I must say that Canon Brydges-ffrench himself is rather counting on it.’

‘I’d gathered that much. Miss Marsden seems to think there’s no question that it could be anyone else. That’s what she told me before dinner.’

‘Miss Marsden . . . well. She’s rather counting on it, too,’ he laughed. ‘She rather fancies being Mrs Dean.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Not that it’s necessarily going to happen, whether he gets the appointment or not,’ Jeremy added, smiling cynically. ‘He’s been putting her off for years, from what I hear.’ He pointed to the house on the curve of the Close to the left of the Deanery, an eighteenth-century red brick house with stone dressings. ‘Evelyn Marsden lives there, next to the Deanery. She’s been there for yonks.’

‘And here?’ Directly opposite the east end of the cathedral was a range of three houses, built of red brick in the 1920s in neo-Georgian style. The centre house was small, one-storeyed with dormers; the two flanking houses were larger, and two-storeyed, though in proportion they were slightly pinched looking.

‘Canon Brydges-ffrench lives in the one on the right, next to Miss Marsden. The one in the centre belongs to the organist, Ivor Jones. And the Precentor’s house is on the left,’ explained Jeremy. Next came the row of Georgian town houses that they had so recently left, set back from the Close and angled to the south-west. Each of the three houses had its own handsome black iron gate, but subtle differences in their exteriors, reflecting the respective personalities of their inhabitants, saved them from uniformity. Lucy’s father’s house was the first, on the right; in the few months that he had been there he had done little to differentiate his dwelling, apart from the rather half-hearted terracotta pot of wilting petunias and alyssum outside the door. Next door, though, a wooden statue, clearly African in origin and depicting a mother and her suckling child stood vigil over the entrance, betraying that this was the home of the Canon Missioner, as did the hectically-coloured printed blinds at

Reviews for Appointed to Die

[condorena · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is the third in this Book of Palms series by Kate Charles. The story is about an ancient cathedral that has been appointed a new Dean. This new man is like other deans, a political appointment. The man is has very few good qualities and the worst of these is that he has no people skills and worse he had no Christian charity in his makeup.

Dean Latimer cares for no one except himself although he does follow his wife's instructions to the T. There is certainly no separation of Church and state and this makes for an interesting mystery because while one would have expected the Dean to be killed, what actually happens is that he is charged with murder.

The problem with the story is that 3/4 of the book sets the stage and the murder takes place very late in the plot.A unique feature that is discussed is the fact that men enter the church for political and ambitious advancement rather than because they have a calling.